Unfinished Tales

I was going to write about her falling asleep in my arms, curled in
a ball, soft and fleeting, elf-like sighs and drunken murmurs.

I was going to write about walking her home, sitting and discussing
cows and cats and statues in the heat of the night.

I was going to write about saying goodbye, watching her leave as I hold
my tongue, keeping the secret of years as she flies over the
waves.

Once I was going to write about meeting her that night and finding that
one, that unexpected, that joy of surprise.

But we all have left, and now there is nothing but stories without
endings